


Surrender

by Roughnight



Category: Guild Wars
Genre: F/M, Guild Wars 2 - Freeform, necromancer - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 07:12:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1735763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roughnight/pseuds/Roughnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You make me drop my guard<br/>We try to fight it<br/>But something's written in the stars</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> .
> 
> Disclaimer: Tyria isn’t mine. Lyon Reaper isn’t mine, too. I will own him in the near future, though.^^
> 
> A/N: Not beta’d. Apologies for any mistake you’ll encounter throughout your read. My neck is yours. 
> 
> .

 

 

~*~*~*~

 _Early this morning_  
When you knocked upon my door  
Early this morning  
When you knocked upon my door  
And I said hello Satan  
I believe it's time to go  
  
Me and the Devil  
Was walkin' side by side  
Me and the Devil  
Was walking side by side  
  
I'm gonna see my man  
'Til I get satisfied

_-Me and the Devil_

  


 

Their death was inevitable. She had known the outcome even before the fight properly started. Setting up an ambush was by no means a guarantee of having the upper hand—not with _him_ —and certainly not if she could help it. It didn’t matter if she wanted to slay the same target or not, or if she perhaps shared the same sentiments with them. She could understand what must be their sheer desperation. It was the one thing she harbored for the longest time, the one thing she had only known. But there is no honor in ambush… It was the way of the cowards. If she made her kills a bit more enthusiastically this time or if she didn’t feel that nagging reluctance inside her chest for slaying under _his_ name and serving _him_ , then she’d consider it a small blessing. This small band of thieves… why couldn’t they just choose the honorable way the way she did in the past? Granted, she’d just dug her own grave in the end and perhaps got a worse sentence—that what they got one way or another would be considered a form of bliss— but ambush was one of the ugliest thing a man of Tyria could possible commit. She’d muttered a silent prayer for their expected demise even before they could strike down their blades at them. She reckons that she’d been on her best damn behavior today. She could have taken them all with her profound resentment at such display of cowardice. She could’ve owned them all by herself and _he_ must’ve known it, what with her bloodlust practically seeping out of her pores.

 

She didn’t know what to make of his assistance.

 

As always, _his_ kills were gruesome. Torn chunks of flesh scattered on the green mounds and the earth was painted with blood. She stared at the mess, transfixed. Their demise was inevitable and that they faced it in the most horrible way was to be expected. The enemies ought to have expected it from _him_ , the kills that aren’t really flattering to the victims. She stood amidst the disaster and drank in the scene. She had witnessed his kills enough times that she no longer felt sick upon seeing how mangled the corpses could possibly look. The air was thick with the coppery scent of the dead and the place was now enveloped by the same chilling silence that cooled her skin. It was as if the quiet was tangible, an invisible void that sucked all the noises. It was his own brand of quiet after the fight as he savored the loss of life by his hands. She suppressed the shiver that crawled up her spine. It was yet another change she had noticed in her—the chill that came with his silence that long ago used to paralyze and frighten her now felt _familiar_ , almost comfortable. Inside the confines of her chest, her heart felt drunk on digitalis—it was never truly galloping, running controlled, but it was still pounding wildly, riding the last traces of adrenaline. It was the same sweet high she savored after coming out of her previous battles. It didn’t matter if she fought by herself or under someone’s name. It didn’t matter if she was owned in the most absolute way or not.

 

The sick sound of teeth gnawing frantically on flesh and the dry sound of grating bones shook her from her reverie. Her eyes were quickly drawn to the flesh golem hunched over an asuran corpse. She could’ve liked that asuran thief. He had fought so well and quite valiantly even when he witnessed his group getting murdered one by one. Ignoring the golem, she kneeled beside the corpse and reached out to pluck a button from its vest to keep as a token for yet another fight won. It was a pity the thief had to die. She didn’t harbor remorse though. One, after all, does not engage in fire fights without being truly prepared for the worst outcome. These guys had especially organized an ambush.

 

An eyeball rolled next to her feet. She sniffed disdainfully. The dead bodies around them looked well and truly butchered. Horrid would be a kind word to describe what her eyes see… but the kills only looked worse than they actually were. They were _his_ kills after all. They got owned by Lyon Reaper. Her master never went for pointless interventions. Reaper could be considered mercilessly cruel, with his record of not leaving anyone alive in every single one of his fights, but he abhorred wasting time. These people… they were _unnecessary_ to him. It was only rational to go straight for the kill. Cruelty came in the form of his minions. He must’ve considered the enemies a waste of breath as well, letting all the beasts do the work for him. Even without his usual poisons to anesthetize the enemies, the minions still went straight for the jugulars. Their death, hideous it may seem, was still quick and clean. More horror, less agony... In the end game, isn’t that what mattered most?

 

She felt him draw closer towards her even before she heard his muffled footsteps. Shadow spilled over her and the warmth of another body so close behind her held her frozen in place. That was what separated Reaper from the rest of the necromancers. His mere presence consumed like wildfire. It was as if his existence refused to be bound and defined, constantly overlapping with that of others and demanding sovereignty over all it touched. She used to place it on his Corruption. It was something she was yet to find out.

 

She heard the sharp hiss of blade slice through air and saw it pierce the neck of the unsuspecting golem. The agonized beast fell quietly on top of its dead asuran meal. Frankly, it no longer surprised her. It was ruthless, smiting one of your own but it was also a form of punishment. The flesh golem Reaper summoned this time had indeed performed poorly, ignoring its necromancer’s commands. Killing the thing instead of sending it back to the Veil ensured that Reaper won’t get the same inferior one the next time he summons. It was a calculating move, yet something she most probably won’t follow through or do to her own summoned minions. Watching the spectral traces of the Veil seep from the ground to take back the corpse of one of its creatures, she wondered, not for the first time, if she was going to meet the same fate should a time come where she is bested by the enemies and her uses maxed out.

 

“Stop,” Reaper said in his cool, baritone voice with a sense of finality. Warm finger pressed at the back of her neck, languidly tracing a vertical pattern, and effectively seizing her attention. If she wasn’t already held in her place by his mere closeness alone, she would’ve stopped dead from the sudden contact. Reaper says the word and her crippling sanity follows. _She stopped_ —thinking, that is.

 

“It won’t happen,” he continued when she did not utter a reply. It frightened her that he could always tell what’s on her mind. It made her feel owned above all else—more so than doing his deeds and killing under his name and more so than the blood contract they had forged several Full Moons ago. _‘It won’t happen.’_ It was always the same statement. If she could be honest about it, she’d say how inwardly grateful she felt that he never told her not to be afraid. It would be a lie. It would be something no sane person can take control of… and she at least would like to think that a part of her mind was still functioning appropriately. Fear was something one could savor even if it was not wholly productive.

 

It burned, the path where his finger glided. It was as if her skin parted like butter by the soft pad of his digit. Just as he never did anything halfway with his kills, his touch was never light and feathery. It was firm and solid, overwhelming. Her continued silence he must’ve taken as a form of answer. Reaper gave a low, satisfied hum before easing the finger from her nape.

 

“At ease,” he drawled softly. She took note of the subtle humor in his voice. She felt the distance increase between them as he presumably walked away. By the time she rose to her feet and turned around to follow, he was already tracing his way back. They were in an isolated and hidden passage just outside of Nolan in Diessa Plateau. The area was surrounded by chunks of rocks that served as fortified walls, surrounding a small pool. It was a place of contradictions. Where most of Diessa was dry and barren, this place housed a small garden. Trees sheltered it as if the place was a consecrated ground, shading it from the desert heat.

 

“What got on your nerves?” She blurted even before she could think about it. Curiosity wasn’t something she could easily ignore. It was true, too. While Reaper’s kills were terrifyingly quick and painless, more mess and gore were left this time around. The minions made sure to dismember and leave a grotesque array of corpses. Their actions were deliberately directed to dehumanize. What the beasts do reflect their conjurer’s intentions. She had only observed this display from Reaper a number of times and today was definitely one of them. “You’re particularly brutal today,” she said because he needed to hear it.

 

“Oh? Am I?” He asked somberly even as he continued with his trek.

 

“I could’ve taken them all by myself.” It was true, again, but Reaper decided to take the matter in his own hands and interfered.

 

“Of course, you can.”

 

“They why meddle?”

 

“Could you not figure it out by yourself?” he drawled.

 

“I could,” she retorted, “but I’d rather hear it from you.” She wasn’t known to thread the waters carefully.

 

Reaper stopped and looked over his back at her, brows mildly raised. “My, Gun, you’re getting lazy.”

 

“You were especially vicious,” she continued, ignoring his deflection. Reaper was a master of linguistics. She had to break the chain somewhere if she was to get any answer. “Did you know them from before?” She would not believe even for a second that Reaper harbored personal resentment towards the act of ambush like she did. Her master would hold no form of respect to them, yes, but the attempt for a surprise attack would only be seen as a mild form of entertainment by him—a mocking parody to a display of creativity.

 

“I did not.” Reaper huffed without any trace of humor in his voice. “You wouldn’t have met those _pests_ had we crossed paths in the past.”

 

She believed him. While they were engaging in what would seem as a normal conversation, it would be a reckless mistake to forget who this man really was. His voice dripped with venom. Had he met them earlier, he would’ve killed them already. The irritation in his voice only proved she wasn’t wrong in assuming that Reaper was deliberately savage earlier.

 

She decided to keep her silence.

 

“Since it is apparent that you’ve got time in your hands,” he mused, “go get me some strawberries, Gun. I am famished.”

 

She glared at him with hardened jaws. There were easier ways to tell if he wanted to dismiss her. She swore servitude and was bound by blood but not for this menial of a task. “Ask your bone minion to do it.”

 

“Don’t be gross.” He sniffed. “That’s hardly sanitary.” He waved his dismissal and proceeded to round the pillar of rock, effectively hiding himself from her view.

 

Begrudgingly, she made her way towards the garden located on top of a knoll. Picking up a handful of fruits, it didn’t escape her how the place looked sacred and beautiful beneath the moonbeams. She could spend the day in this place. It was a pity death was associated with it. She could understand, though, why even Lyon Reaper kept coming back in this hidden passage.

 

In the grand scheme of things, Gun shouldn’t have been surprised to what came next. Somewhere in the inner recesses of her mind, she probably already expected it.

 

When she finished collecting her fruits, she noticed how the night was suddenly unusually quiet. It wasn’t the same silence she experienced earlier. There was a touch of deliberateness and intention behind it. It was something that seemed conspicuously designed, something aberrant. Her instinct kicked in and her first thought was to locate her master. She was technically under her vow, her fealty held by the Corrupted necromancer. It also helped that she had no intention of giving Reaper to anyone else—not when she worked so hard to one day surpass the man. She did not embrace the blood contract and all that would be considered evil just so she could fail in killing him and exacting her revenge. She ran down the knoll, almost slipping—one hand grabbing the berries, the other fishing the dagger from her belt out. It was entirely possible that another group of enemies came for ambush. There was a long list of people who wanted to end Lyon Reaper.

 

She was torn between groaning exasperatedly and gasping in surprise when her sea-green eyes met the sight before her. In the end, the sound that came from her mouth turned out very similar to a moan. She inwardly cursed herself. She prayed to all the deities that it escaped Reaper’s notice but the slight twitch of the man’s lips told her otherwise. _There weren’t any bloody enemies_. She dropped the fruits on the ground and half-heartedly threw the dagger at him—at the mad, cruel man.

 

With amazing ease, Reaper carefully side stepped the thrown blade.

 

“That is why you could not beat me,” he said matter-of-factly, “you should know how to take care of your weapons.”

 

Lyon Reaper was devious. There in the middle of the pool, he stood with all of his clothes shed except for a small translucent linen tied to his waist. His pale skin glistened with the beads of water, the darkness of his hair complimented by the silver rays. His confident abyssal eyes held hers, conversing and coaxing. He was a terrifying man. He was also impossibly beautiful. Sometimes she wondered how she could forget that this man, Corrupted he may be, was also once upon a time, a prince. Seeing him bare like this and almost human, Gun was reminded of the _incident_. Since that time, it did not take much to stir the snake inside her belly. She had since been especially careful in avoiding the same mistake—for that was what it was, something that should never have happened.

 

“Cat got your tongue?” Reaper asked lightly, almost in a sing-song.

 

“My tongue is perfectly fine,” she retorted. “Go get your strawberries.” She indicated the fruits now scattered around her feet. “I’m getting out of here, _master_.”

 

“I could just ask you to feed me.”

 

“You wouldn’t.” She glared.

 

“Teagun.” She heard him say just when she made to turn her back. His voice echoed and she felt the vibration inside her damn marrows. She shouldn’t have listened, shouldn’t have looked… but sometimes she wondered if perhaps his voice was infused with death magic. She was beckoned and she just couldn’t find it in her to ignore him. Even barely wearing anything but that skimpy excuse of a cover, Reaper stood proud like a regal prince. He must be the only organic in Tyria who could go bare yet seem fully armored with Ascended. With the way things are going, it wouldn’t take much for her to believe that he was half Mesmer, too.

 

She was caught, in every sense of the word… because the traitorous serpent has already been stroke awake and, _Melandru bless her,_ but she didn’t know how to handle it on her own—especially not with the memories of the _incident_ still fresh on her mind. If she felt as if the air around the place was thinning, she opted to blame it on the man.

 

“Attraction does not mean affection,” Reaper said lightly.

 

It does not... but she also wasn’t entirely confident that her current state of mind could tell the difference particularly when the line between the two were already precariously blurred.

 

“What’s stopping you? It also would not mean betraying your goal, not when you also—”

 

Gun lunged forward and swiftly lifted a hand to cover Reaper’s mouth. Her lord was just repeating what she already knew. With his superior tongue, Reaper would just hammer on. Not that she would believe the illusion, but he could make a flesh golem seem more attractive than a Sylvari hound by his mere words alone when he’s in the mood. There was only one way to end this predicament. She already knew that. It wasn’t as if she’s unfamiliar with the liquid fire now pooling inside her marrows or with the stirring want somewhere in her navel. Instead of cowering, she’d rather take what amount of control she could. There were fights she still had a chance of winning even when equipped with sheer desperation alone—didn’t matter if she fumbled in the dark along the way.

 

She stood in front of him, almost touching. The cold water soaked her to her waist, her clothes clung tightly like second skin. She wondered if it was possible the synapses of her neurons got fried. She was freezing and burning at the same time. It was impossible to ignore the blood humming in her veins. She could blame all of these in the adrenaline still kicking inside her system. She would if she could get away with it. She wanted this just as much.

 

Beneath her palm, she could feel Reaper’s lips curve into a satisfied smile. _Smug bastard_.

 

Gun knew her answer was acknowledged when warm hands curled at her lower back, holding her in place. They were unnecessary. She was hardly going anywhere when she already decided to let go and ride the flow—of whatever this was. She wouldn’t cower especially when she’d pretty much conveyed how she wanted to indulge as well. There was never any sense in lying to her master. There was no way it would work.

 

Taking a steadying breath, she leaned her forehead on his bare shoulder and looked down. She was playing with fire. With one foot already crossing the line, her other one might as well join. There were a lot of things to be terrified about Reaper yet she could not help but admire the abrasive beauty he possessed. The water pronounced his chiseled hips and the skimpy translucent linen flattered his barely concealed manhood. Slowly, she reached down and tugged at the linen’s band with her index finger, granting the flushed head its blissful release from its confines. He was already hard, the flesh pink from the rush of blood. Reaper’s fingers dug at her back, encouraging.

 

Power. She could get used to it.

 

Her heart hammering inside her ribs and throwing caution in the wind, she swiped a thumb over the slit of his cock and felt the bead of precum. It made her wonder how long this man had wanted. She felt the warm huffs of his breath on her palm. He’s beautiful like this, gagged. She wished she could keep at it but she reckoned she’d rather hear his voice. This strong, self sufficient and devious man… she wanted to see him reduced to a writhing mess. For all his beauty and grandiosity, she was fairly sure it was his sharp, cutting mind that pulled at her the most. She wanted to cap it, wanted it shrank to its basal and carnal capacity.

 

She released his mouth and used her now free hand to pull the useless cloth away, setting it adrift in the water. She probably should wonder about her own sanity. A year ago, she wouldn’t have thought it decent to kill people and then engage in debauchery while running the adrenaline kick from the fight. Wrapping her hands around Reaper’s pulsing cock, stroking the hardened warmth and feeling him shake in response, she thought she could deal with it.

 

“Decent,” Reaper huffed, his breath warming the back of her ears, “decent is boring.” She really wondered if Lyon bloody Reaper could read her mind.

 

“You’re still talking,” she muttered disapprovingly and lifted her head to properly look at him. His pupils were blown wide, his cheeks tinted pink. It was exhilarating.

 

“Maybe you’re not doing it properly,” he mocked weakly.

 

Daringly, she tiptoed and bit lightly at his jaw, hands tightening at the prize they held below, rubbing ever so slowly, her thumbs stroking the underside of his length. “Then, show me,” she whispered against his skin.

 

As if it was the signal he has been waiting for, Reaper was spurred into action. He placed a hand on top of hers’ and guided the rhythm, dragging her fingers from under his balls to the very tip of his head, coating his whole shaft with his own wetness. It startled her when another hand wandered on her back, beneath her clothes, caressing her skin like a full blown gale. Before she could take steadying breaths to catch up, she felt his lips press against her brow tenderly. If she gripped a little too tightly on his manhood, he didn’t give any indication of it; instead, Reaper nuzzled her cheeks until he caught her mouth in an open kiss. It was a dance. _Power. Control_. Somehow, his slow kiss grounded her. With renewed resolve, she kissed back, suckling and tongue fighting for dominance. She lifted one of her hands and stroked his muscled chest, dragging her nails against his hardened nubs. She needed to get on top of him, needed to touch everywhere, to do something. It was painful trying to remain still. She let out a breathy moan when his tongue swept at her palate and lips clamped at her tongue to suckle. Reaper smiled against her lips.

 

It wasn’t long before he’d successfully divested her top off of her. If she wasn’t too preoccupied, she’d be angry that the impatient man ripped her clothes instead of undoing the ties. She shivered at the sudden coldness, the chilly night air wrapping around her like cloak of needles. He let go of guiding her hand to pull her closer until she was flushed against him, bare sticky skins rubbing. Reaper was incredibly warm. He smelled like the rainforest at dawn.

 

“Lyon,” he said in between kisses.

 

Puzzled, she broke off the kiss and looked at him with furrowed brows.

 

“You keep calling me Reaper. I rather think, given the circumstances, that we could call each other by our names.”

 

Her mouth immediately closed shut. That was dangerous. Liaising with the enemy already was ill advised. She’d risk losing her goal by forming more connections. She’d risk developing a far more complicated relationship.

 

“I wouldn’t let you.” Lyon stated gravely. “I’d rather kill you myself before you could abandon what you vowed to do. I will be waiting.”

 

It was assuring, at the very least. It was also unnerving. “Stop reading my mind.”

 

“Ahh, then, where would the fun be in that?” She felt his hand on her hips and his hardness pressed on her suddenly bare thigh. She looked down and saw that her soaked skirt was already sneakily lifted around her waist.

 

Reaper was terrifyingly quick.

 

Something soft and rough pressed at the edge of her lips. She maneuvered her face so she could get a decent look at it and saw that it was a bloody strawberry that Lyon bloody Reaper held.

 

“Open your mouth,” he simply said.

 

She narrowed her eyes at him. Lyon’s face was carefully guarded with nothing to give his emotions away. He looked at her steadily. Even without words, she knew what this was about.

 

_Fucking strawberries._

 

If this wasn’t a prelude to a change in dynamics, then she didn’t know what was. Defiantly, she kept her lips pursed tightly and glared back at him. He knew she knew what it was he’s asking for. There was no use in pretending to know less in matters he especially pays attention to. She dragged on the silence as much as she could, not wanting to give away a fight so easily. Lyon can be equally relentless, though. He was the silence personified.

 

“Control was something you already savored in our last… _ahh_ , activity.” The edge of his lips quivered in a barely concealed humor. “I think I want to have it this time around.”

 

No chance in hell.

 

“I got you,” he said solemnly, warm hands tracing a path from her back to her bare shoulders, thumbs rubbing coaxingly over her collar bones.

 

Again, she believed him. That was the heart of the problem. The Corrupted necromancer was yet to tell her a lie. His words were steel and honor was probably one of the few qualities he bothered to keep—at least, where it served his purpose. Control was just something she wasn’t used to give.

 

“I’ll let you have it next time,” Lyon continued lightly.

 

“Who said there’ll be a next time?”

 

“Insolent,” he hummed, his voice low. He knew he was winning the battle.

 

_In for a copper, may as well for a gold._

 

With an encouraging intake of breath, she took the berry into her mouth, her lips grazing the tips of his fingers, green eyes locked with his. Lyon gave her a small, satisfied smile and caressed the plumpness of her lower lip with his thumb. She fleetingly thought of biting it but just because she’s been known to dig her own grave did not mean that she can’t be cautious. She already gave him her consent, the bastion of power was literally on his side.

 

“ _Skyhammer_ ,” he said while dipping his head until his mouth touched the soft hollow on the side of her neck, inhaling her scent. “If things get a little too much for you, _that_ will be your safe word. I will stop.”

 

The flavor of the fruit burst in her mouth. Chewing and savoring the sweetness, she had to let him continue. At the back of her mind, she wondered if this was a calculated move on his part so he could dictate the mechanics of their dynamics while her mouth was preoccupied with something else. One can never truly tell.

 

“You will not speak anymore unless I address you,” he started, teeth nipping on her collarbone, hard enough to leave red streaks of mark as a warm hand subtly wandered to cup a sensitized breast, the palm massaging in a slow rhythm. She bit her lower lip to suppress a whimper. Her hands dug at his hips for anchor. As if sensing her refusal to make sounds, he pinched a hardened nub and rolled it between two fingers, tugging teasingly. “Noises, of course, are a different matter. You don’t need to fake them for me.”

 

“Who would fake them for you?” she whispered snidely as a last attempt for retaliation.

 

“Oh, god,” he chuckled lightly, his voice rumbling deeply like that of a thunderstorm’s, “you are stubborn, woman.”

 

It was a form of blessing that she already had her hands on him for support. The sharp pain that followed caught her by surprise. Lyon’s teeth sank down on her neck, this time breaking skin and drawing blood. She, too, tasted her own blood on her lips as a result of another valiant attempt to keep the noises to herself. It was done just as quickly as it started. She felt Lyon’s lips press gently and consolingly over the fresh wound, the tip of his tongue flicking like butterfly touches to sweep the blood off. There was no need for words. It was as clear as a zenith skin. For every rule that she broke, the marking of her skin would be the punishment. She already knew that Lyon Reaper was a rather possessive and territorial man. Perhaps it should not be a surprise if she was considered part of his territory—at the very least, during the remainder of their blood contract. And if she thought even for one second that she was prepared to keep up for whatever phase he would set, then she was gravely mistaken. Lyon surged forward like a wave, half carrying her weight with him, their physical contact never breaking, until her back was pressed hard against a huge chunk of rock. Without a moment’s notice, his hand was under one of her thighs, lifting it and guiding her leg so it was wrapped around him.

 

He was a freaking gale. He was a disaster. If it was difficult to keep track of his movements when he was engaged in battles, then today was a different matter. She felt as if he was all over her. The barrage of stimuli was unbearable her knees would’ve given out without his hold. The jagged roughness of the rock cut at her back, its edges digging like fine pin prick needles. Lyon’s erection pressed tightly over her still covered warmth, digging at and stretching the soaked clothing. The same hand that cradled her breast started to knead, teasing the mound, fingers pinching the nipple. Then there was Lyon’s mouth that served as the top distraction of all. He claimed her mouth in filthy, open mouthed kisses, his tongue no longer exploring but was purposefully sweeping the wet cavern of her mouth. He started a tortuous rhythm—slow, shallow thrust of his hips, his length touching and pushing hard but never crossing the line of penetration. She vaguely wondered if she would bruise, she could feel his blunt hardness ramming in relentlessly. She rode the rhythm without truly riding. It ached but it wasn’t enough. Already, she could feel herself leaking, the gush of excitement that only this man could stir was unmasked and uncontrollable. She fought hard to keep her eyes open but it was impossible against his persistent onslaught. The moans she could’ve made, he swallowed with his mouth as if he didn’t want to share it with the world. His teeth nibbled on her already bruised lips. She whimpered, not knowing whether she wanted to pullback or push in. They were already under each other’s skin and the closeness still wasn’t enough. She received his thrust and pushed back and savored the dull ache that seemed to just spur the fire inside her.

 

It wasn’t enough.

 

Danger never truly bothered her before. She grabbed a globe of his arse and pulled him to her so that their naked chests pressed tightly and his engorged cock she could feel against her own wet arousal. She caught his tongue with her lips and sucked back. She explored his mouth greedily. Lips on lips. Teeth on teeth. She licked what her tongue could explore. He wasn’t the only one who could own. He wasn’t the only one who could want. She was a quick learner. It gratified her to feel the minute tremors that rippled throughout Lyon’s limbs. Control was a double edged blade. Just because she consented to submit did not mean she didn’t have it in her to try to reduce him to a writing mess. She lowered her hand and wrapped her shaking fingers around the base of his hardness, feeling the warm weight of his arousal on her palms. His cock was impossibly warm; she could feel the rush of blood, pulsating. She pumped leisurely, almost experimentally, trying to get used to him. Lyon moaned against her mouth and his hips jerked in, pushing further, his flushed head dangerously overstretching the clothing of her underwear.

 

“I see what you’re doing,” he said, his breath shaky against her mandible. “You’re getting creative,” he continued, voice light, as he pressed his lips over her shoulder blades.

 

Carefully, he lifted an index finger and pressed it lightly against her lips. There was a live coal smoldering somewhere inside her chest. It was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. She was burning inside and out. She ached. Her heart pounded wildly against her ribs she forgot to respond for a time. Lyon looked at her intensely and patiently.

 

“Suck,” he said quietly but somehow without any room for argument as if it was a perfectly normal thing to do, “and then I’ll tell you a secret in exchange.”

 

One of her legs was still lifted and curved around him. Somehow with all the flurry of activities, Lyon never forgot to hook an arm on her thighs and reposition her legs every now and then. She inwardly cursed herself for not noticing. This time though, she felt a lone digit press against the entrance of her warmth. She sharply sucked in a lungful of air. With a satisfied hum, Lyon started applying short sucking kisses over her earlobe and along the side of her neck even as his finger brushed the cloth of her underwear aside and finally crossed the threshold. His index finger pushed in ever so slowly and caressed the slick walls of her womanhood.

 

A full, shaky moan finally escaped her, unrestrained, and Lyon’s finger traced the edge of her parted lips. He lifted his head and pressed his chest against her, keeping her trapped. “Trust me,” he said.

 

Trust was something she already risked since the time she entered their contract and then again now when she gave her consent to submit. Didn’t she already trust enough when his finger was buried inside her? The retort was at the edge of her tongue but she swallowed it. It didn’t even occur to her to utter the safe word. His secrets, however, she did want to know. If it was uncomfortable to have his finger invading her insides, then it was even more intolerable to have it stagnant when she just wanted to extinguish the heat that burned inside her belly. It was too much. It also wasn’t enough.

 

She took his finger inside her mouth—another manifestation of submission. She was rewarded with a small smile. Remembering his words, she started to wrap her tongue around the digit before applying small, rhythmic suctions. Her lips closed around the smooth length of his finger, contracting and applying vacuum. Lyon kept his hand steady for her and then kissed the edge of her mouth and licked whatever slickness that dripped down her chin.

 

“You were right about me being a bit carried away and more savage earlier today,” he admitted conversationally even as he started to introduce a second digit inside her, searching and curving to find that spot that would fry her mind. It was difficult to keep at her task. She rather thought she would die from the buildup of pressure.

 

He looked at her with such devoted focus; his shadowed eyes trained where his finger disappeared inside her mouth. Down below, his fingers pushed in and pulled out with increasing speed, caressing the wetness inside. She couldn’t help but whimper around his finger, careful not to bite. She should’ve known he would be merciless with his sweet tortures. “They were interlopers,” he stated even as he curved his fingers with astonishing accuracy on the spot that made her want to explode. “Tonight’s a Full Moon. This was supposed to be your day.”

 

The realization did not come to her as fast as it should—not when she was barely coherent keeping up with his ministrations. Full Moons were supposed to be the days she was granted special audience to try and kill his master. It was part of their contract. The ambush made her forget that they were supposed to have their duel. It was so simple. It was also absurd that he would have the reaction he did earlier. It did not make any sense. It was hardly a secret that he frequented the secret passage in Nolan. This was how she first found him, after all, a long time ago, carrying the intent to slay him.

 

The reveal done, he carefully withdrew his finger from her mouth and caressed her lower lip, coating it with wetness. Her lips were numb. She imagined them to be impossible red. Their eyes locked. Lyon leaned in for a kiss and their tongues touched before their lips sealed. It was mildly a surprise to have found that her mouth opened for him before she could think about it. He kissed her deeply and properly this time, savoring the soft caresses of tongues, plump lips dragging across each other’s skins.

 

She leaned back and rested the back of her head against the rock when she felt his mouth tracing a path down her neck and towards her chest. He kissed the rest of her skin as if he was kissing her mouth. His now ragged breathes enveloped her naked flesh. She looked up at the black sea of stars and whimpered as Lyon took a breast inside his mouth and sucked wantonly. Tongue laved at her nipple back and forth. She placed a hand at the back of Lyon’s head, pulling on his hair, steadying him. The other hand she lifted so she could bite at her wrist and keep the cries from breaking the silence of the night.

 

Never failing in his pursuit, Lyon reached a hand grab the arm she was biting and pin it somewhere above her head, against the rock. Without breaking stride, he moved towards her other breast and caught a nipple between his teeth, biting playfully, enough to cause a sharp sting but not enough to wound. Under the soaking water, he plunged his fingers inside her until his knuckles hit hard against the lips of her womanhood and pressed a thumb on her clit. Without anything to bite on, the litany of groans and moans escaped her. She shook and whimpered as he relentlessly repeated the actions, playing her body and dragging the sounds out of her mouth as he wished.

 

“What are you doing?” she couldn’t help but ask falteringly as his teeth released her bitten nub only to lave at it with the tip of his tongue, leaving the rest of the mound along. It was a torture, never exactly knowing what to expect the next.

 

“If you can’t figure it out on your own,” he said against her moistened breast, “then it is your loss.” He then proceeded to finally take the mound inside his mouth and knead it with his lips. She whimpered and leaned her face against the back of his head, smelling his hair, feeling the damp sweaty scalp against her face.

 

Lyon released her mound after placing a last fleeting kiss on her sensitized nub then traced his way back up with warm kisses until he caught her mouth in another searing kiss. He was a superb kisser; she wondered if there will ever be a time she won’t get lost in it. His neglected cock was still impossibly hard as he rubbed it against her thigh, rubbing on it instead of where it was supposed to be. With one final smack of lips, Lyon finally pulled out his digits from her warmth below and placed a hand under her other thigh, indicating for her to wrap it around him, too. Understanding his meaning, she leaned her weight against the rock, her thighs supported by his hands. She lifted her legs and wrapped them both around his waist, her back supported by the roughness of the rock. They stayed like that for a couple of heartbeats, looking at each other and breathing raggedly and shallowly. She was near bursting and his grip was also tremendously tight. She wondered about the breaking point of his control.

 

She looked down at him—at his strained arms supporting her weight, at his flushed face, blown wide pupils, reddened lips and sweat covered skin. She waited for the voice that would tell her to stop this but it didn’t come… That or the voice of sanity was swallowed whole by the burning desire and the serpent inside her. She wanted this. It was as simple as that.

 

Lyon gave her a small nod. With an astounding display of support and control, he gently lowered her weight until the blunt tip of his hard erection pressed pass the lips, and inside her entrance. She gripped his shoulders hard, fingers digging enough to leave bruises. She wasn’t aware she had closed her eyes. She opened them and saw him regarding her carefully, dark eyes with limitless concentration. Biting her lower lip, she gave a small nod. It was only then that he gave in and completed the penetration, pushing slowly but unfalteringly until his length was fully sheathed by her warmth. She felt his hardened manhood inch by inch, sensed the drag of flesh inside her until she was completely capped.

 

“Let my other leg go,” she said as she took in a lungful of air and waited to get used to his size.

 

“No,” he answered, his voice coated with humor. A childish grin graced his lips. “I told you. You don’t get to have control this time. It is an interesting attempt, though, I’ll tell you.”

 

She glared at him. It was true. With both legs around him, she was in a precarious position, being in the mercy of whatever pace he set. There was little for her to do but hold on and be at the receiving end of his assault—to accept what he gave. Her reverie was cut short when a short burst of laughter escaped from Lyon’s mouth. The voice sounded gentle and foreign.

 

 

“Stop fighting, Gun,” he said, smiling, “I got you.”

 

“You do.” Literally. He was inside her after all.

 

He laughed again. The vibration of his laughter caressed her insides. He was buried to his balls as she was pinned to her core. She whimpered. Even soaking in the pool, she could feel her own wetness, feel herself leaking just as she could feel his wetness inside her. Lyon was being torturously slow.

 

“Kiss me,” he said solemnly when his rare laughter died down, “and I’ll forgive you for breaking the rule.” His breathe touched her chin.

 

The request caught her off guard. She looked at his equally bruised lips and found that it was what she wanted to do. She leaned down and caught his lower lip with her own, nibbling before languidly tracing the tip of her tongue along his parted lips. She explored his pliant mouth, tasting and breathing in his scent. He let her set the pace of the kiss before he tenderly kissed back.

 

“Safe word?” he asked against her lips.

 

“No,” she answered simply.

 

“How do you feel?”

 

“Warm. Full of you.”

 

“As if I own you?” he asked mildly.

 

“For now,” she answered honestly.

 

She felt him falter in his kisses. It was minute but it was there. Lyon then gave a contemplative hum and proceeded with the caress of tongues.

 

They broke off the kiss on cue. She gripped him hard even before he started to pull back; withdrawing his cock until he was almost out before ramming in, until he was fully sheathed once again. He never did things half way. He set a slow, steady and rhythmic phase. Each draw and entry slid against her walls, cut through her insides and spread up to the tip of her fingers. She could feel the whole of him. Each pull and push made him shook, too, his shallow breathing more evident as sweat broke from his pale face. He thrust again and again, each strike purposeful and designed to make her feel him. She rode him valiantly, no longer masking the moans and whimpers. She couldn’t help the reciprocating constriction her womanhood gave. She was literally shaking and spasming inside. She ached more, gripping his hardness as it struck in.

 

Lyon cried hoarsely into the night, shouting her name. He faltered with his thrust and leaned his weight against her, his hands digging on her arse. Fearing the fall, she wrapped her bare legs tighter around his waist. “You are already very tight. Do that again and I won’t last.”

 

Dumbstruck by the statement, she couldn’t help the light chuckle that blossomed from her chest into her mouth like butterfly wings. “Isn’t that the goal to begin with?” she sniggered.

 

His reply was to pull out his hardness and struck down hard, his balls hitting her perineum with a resounding slap. He rubbed himself inside her as she moaned, not giving a breather, and circling his hips against her as punishment. She shook and leaned on to him.

 

“Git,” she muttered.

 

“Isn’t this the goal?” he replied back against her ears as he rubbed his chest against her breasts. “By the gods, hold on to me, Gun,” he ordered with a groan.

 

Without thinking about it, she pulled him closer to her by her curled legs and hooked an arm around his neck, the other hand she used to support herself against the rock.

 

The buildup of pressure made her feel as if they were on fire. He was like a rock inside her, bludgeoning on. Her weight finally secured, Lyon freed his other hand and placed it on her navel, the thumb reaching down to caress at her spot, stirring her further. He plowed on relentlessly this time, the rhythm swift and the strikes no longer gentle. It was more about reaching what they both wanted, about letting the fire inside to finally explode. They were literally soaked in water but she was fairly sure they were leaking in an entirely different manner. They were gushing. They were monstrous waves meeting under the moon, consuming each other and being consumed.

 

And she already felt as if he sucked all the air inside of her. She hurt.

“Please,” she finally moaned.

 

He answered with another hum as he dipped his head lower to catch a nipple and suck. He nuzzled leisurely, knowing her agony and keeping his own in check. Fondling her breast with his mouth, he thrust his hardness inside her and let her ride him helplessly. He savored the feeling of her slickness wrapping around his cock, sucking him in. With her legs now comfortably hooked around his waist, he retrieved his other hand so he could use it to lean on the rock, under one of her armpits. She was breathing raggedly. He smelled the scent of her skin where her heart was supposed to be before turning to her other breast and this time only applying a press of lips.

 

“Lyon,” she called.

 

A hum.

 

“Get on with it or I say the safe word and we both end up with nothing,” she snipped in between ragged breaths.

 

“ _Dear Balthazar_ ,” he laughed, “you’re still being stubborn.” He pulled his hardness out and this time delivered another faster, harsher thrust. They both groaned helplessly. He too needed his release. He was near to bursting. The torture affects both of them… but it was worth it. It was rare to see his servant pleading so openly. It was even rarer seeing her without the mask of defiance. The succeeding thrusts were slower though and he savored the look on her face. “If we stop without reaching our ends, I’ll still know how to handle myself. You won’t.”

 

She glared at him disdainfully. “Let’s go to Shaemoor, shall we, and let me ask around for _help_.”

 

“Not if it burns to the ground before you could reach it,” he said darkly, the threat thick in his voice.

 

“Please,” she relented, knowing she can’t let this press longer, “just give it to me.”

 

It was good enough for him. He was at his breaking point, too. With only a chaste kiss as a warning, he finally rammed in and took her with speed and force. Their groans filled the air as their arousal met again and again. The wet splash of water and the sinful sound of their flesh smacking served only as war cries. Her face was soaked with sweat and the strain and ache she must be feeling was painted beautifully on her face. Their goal was to reach the end point now, to claim their release. He took her then just as he took her the first time. He would continue to take her so and given the choice, she wuld never be owned by others as long as he lived. She was his territory, indeed. He savored her submission and took pleasure that she took pleasure from him. He gave as much as he got. He felt her walls narrow around his manhood, clamping tightly. She was very near indeed. He groaned against her sweaty skin before clamping his mouth around the flesh to suck, effectively keeping his noises subdued. She, however, had no choice but to cry to the wind, the hoarseness of her voice making him impossibly harder. In and out he invaded her, claiming. His knees buckled every time he hit the warm confines of her walls. Each thrust was slicker and quicker. He loved the sound they made.

 

The air was surrounded by the thick smell of their coupling and he loved it even more.

 

“Look at me,” he ordered for she had closed her eyes during his onslaught.

 

She opened her sea-green eyes and obeyed. Her orbs were glazed with pupils blown wide. They were beautiful.

 

“Come,” he said as he shoved in one final thrust, burying the whole of his length to his balls. He kneaded her clit and bit down on her breast before sucking hard on a nipple. A sharp cry tear at her throat. He watched her shake and claim her release—felt her cum gush and envelop his already coated cock. With Gun still riding her orgasm, he rolled his hips against her and reached his own release with one final thrust. He plugged her, strictly making sure to come inside of her, marking her and branding her. She would carry his smell for days. She would try to avoid her own attraction again for that was how she was but he would be content, knowing she carried his scent. She was his.

 

When she came to, her breathing ragged, he caught her mouth for a tender kiss, keeping his length inside her still. He massaged her back with both hands and kept her warm. Breathing each other through their mouth, he guided her back to her feet, pulling his soft sensitized cock out of her warmth and carried her weight against him when her knees buckled. She leaned against him obediently, truly relaxed. Never one to let opportunities pass by, he wrapped his arms around her securely. “You are good like this,” he murmured.

 

“Tired?”

 

“Calm,” he answered. “You’re always fighting. You fight even yourself.”

 

“Not fighting now.”

 

“No, you’re not,” he said lightly.   


Opening her eyes slowly and taking in a controlled breath, she pulled back from the embrace and looked him straight at his eyes. “Should I?” she asked, “Stop fighting, that is?”

 

Without a hint of falter in his voice, he regarded her just as steadily and answered.

 

“No.” And that’s how she knew his words are still reliable.

 

She gave him a small, solemn smile before turning her back to retrieve her ruined clothes and out of the water. “I don’t think I’ll be eating strawberries for a while,” she said over her shoulder.

 

 

 

TBC


End file.
